Dancing Queen
by itsbecauseshesblack
Summary: Destiel AU, rated M for later chapters. Dean wasn't a fan of the physical arts, though a certain blue-eyed stranger might change that tune. He and Cas are like milk and oil, but somehow, the power of dance blends them all too well.
1. Chapter 1

Dean Winchester did not dance, because Dean Winchester was not a sissy. How those things were paired together he didn't know, but it was assumed that most dancers were either gay or nuts. Yeah, he might slowly slide around with a pretty little lady at The Roadhouse every once in awhile, but only after a bottle or three of Jack and a promise of some kinky business afterwards. But that definitely didn't make him a wuss, in his or his dad's eyes; he was just fulfilling his God-given right to be a ladies man, nothing more. So why in hell was he driving his dumb kid brother to ballet on a sunny Saturday afternoon? Because Dean Winchester was a sucker.

"Why do you gotta be such a wimp, Sammy? Dancin' is for chicks, and last time I caught ya in the flesh, your flag was sailin' high." Dean smirked at himself for his creative jib, his old pal Benny would be proud. Not that he peeked at guy's bein' naked, let alone his own family.. that wasn't right.

"Ew Dean, you're disgusting.. and sexist. Boys can do whatever girls can do, and vice versa."

"Oh yeah?" his big brother winked over at him mischievously as they rounded a sharp corner, "Ever meet one that could hike her leg up an-"

"OH MY GOD, SHUT UP!" Sam's face was burning red; he hated perverse talk, especially right before class. Having a chub while wearing spandex was not a great feeling. So he placed bitchface #52 on, and glared at the road ahead, ignoring any further comments.

"Aw c'mon Sammy, don't be a bitch."

"Then don't be a jerk!" Their banter was as old as they were, coming from somewhere in their childhood and never ending. It kept them sane and grounded, a solemn prize in the Winchester world.

Dean actually didn't care to drive Sammy wherever he wanted to go, as he was happy just to escape the usual motel room with bad television and yellowing wall paper for a couple hours. And it was kinda fun to roll down the windows and sing along with AC/DC at the top of his lungs without getting reprimanded, and maybe stop somewhere for ice cream along the way. Even now, having some good old-fashioned ribbing and teasing felt freeing, even if though they could do that whenever. Pretending like they were on their own and could do whatever the heck they wanted was a rare and happy adventure... and though it was always a short-lived dream for both boys, that never stopped them from thinking it. So yeah, Dean was content with the road and his brother alongside him, but that didn't mean he had to enjoy the destination.

A few racy jokes and 2 crappy blues tunes later ("Sammy, what did I say about touching the radio?!"), their Chevy Impala edged into the part of town where the classes were held. They had plenty of time, Dean thought, which meant maybe he could scope out some babes and have something to do while Sam became a fairy. He knew that the local bar wasn't open yet, since he nearly ran to it the minute they arrived in the red-slinging town, so that was out. He could tell his baby brother was on the verge of rage when he passed the studio twice more, feigning ignorance on where it was located as if he hadn't been here a dozen times already. And as much as he wanted to ditch and go do his own thing, he knew he had to stick it out. Watching ballerinas or whatever do their thing wasn't his shot of choice, but he was a under orders.

At a quarter to 3, Sam finally convinced his stupid 19 year old brother to quit driving past and to let him out before he bailed himself, earning him a stern look. When it came to his safety, he knew that Dean would put it above his own and anything else, so a little cooperation and embarrassment won out here. With only 15 minutes spared though, Sam didn't have time to thank his Neanderthal relative when the car parked outside the vine covered building; instead, he pulled his duffel bag out from the backseat and nearly pranced inside, ready for practice. The elder Winchester was less enthused for the upcoming hour and fifteen minutes, dragging his feet as well as his last cigarette as slowly as possible. But eventually, with a disgruntled wave to his baby and a piece of gum popped into his mouth, he also entered the building.


	2. Chapter 2

Inside the place of horror wasn't THAT bad, if wooden floors and grey walls were your thing, because those two details were everywhere. Lace curtains and girly pictures littered the walls, while velcro mats and flower pots were scattering the floor. In Dean's mind, it screamed mommy issues, but hey, what did he know? So instead of being an asshole and commenting to someone about the lack of interior design, he sat down faaaar away from the gathering geeks and little girls starting to fill the room. The chair he picked was in a dim-lit corner, just bright enough to flip through the Asian Beauties magazine he had stuffed into his leather jacket, which meant he'd be okay for now. Reading porn in public was pretty frowned upon, but in this case, it was excusable. Just as he had propped his right foot up on his left knee (like a man was supposed to sit), Castiel motherfucking Milton walked in.

And how, you may ask, did Dean know when the jerk came through the double doors? He SMELLED him, that's how. And no, not because he's part blood hound or his nose is something special, but because Castiel has smelled like a mixture of strong apple pie and rich vanilla for the past 3 weeks now. Maybe even more, since the hunters have only been in this God forsaken town that long. And Sammy, the little shit, squealed and pleaded with John on their first day here to sign him up for the upcoming classes, claiming it'd help with his footing and balance for hunts. 15 year olds and their persuasive crap.. Dean can't believe his dad fell for it. The guy must've thought his youngest just wanted to catch some tail and figured Dean might also, but unfortunately, his eldest had found the wrong kind.

Not that he has or would ever do anything with another guy; like it's been said, he ain't queer. Winchester's like three things: killing, alcohol, and pussy. That's it. Nowhere in that list does it say "dick" or "sausage" (because real men preferred bacon over all meat, dammit). There was something wrong with him obviously, maybe demon activity or a freaking witch messin' with his mind.. but whatever it was, he wished it would knock it off. It's one thing to be a total perv and scam on some hot broad in her tights and tutu, but to leer and drool at some guy's rippling tight as steel hot piece of a- Well, you get the picture. It wasn't cool.

But there he was, adjusting his jeans just because that scent of forbidden deliciousness waved in his face and circled around him like prey. And there that equally delicious guy was, not even 20 feet away, dropping his bag and bending over to dig through it. It wasn't deliberate, he concluded, because Castiel didn't even know that he was alive. They'd never spoken, and Sam hadn't introduced them, so it was safe to say it would never happen. But God, a guy can dream.. secretly. Dean thought he may die if he had to look at that kinda perfection for too long; legs shouldn't go on for days, and backsides shouldn't be that toned and asses shouldn't be so.. chew-worthy. He was definitely staring but could not look away, not even if he was caught. And of course, being himself, he was today.

Inside the bag, Castiel had dug out one of those cute pocket mirrors to fix his hair with; he wasn't conceited or anything, the wind just tussled it to the point of no return on his jog earlier. He had a car yes, but exercise was vital in the dance world. Not only did it keep him fit and healthy, but it apparently caught the eye of.. what was his name? Devin? Darren? Derek? Stan Worshire's older brother, or was it Shawn? Steve? God, it sucked to have a horrible memory. But bad brain be damned, he'd never noticed that hunk checking out his butt before. And if he had, he might've done something about it. But he smiled at himself and figured that now was as good of a time as any to do so, considering that dancing could be seductive if provided with the right moves. Thank God he had watched the VMA's last night.

A gentle but firm clap was produced from the middle of the room, gathering the attention of everyone, unfortunately. "Alright, ladies and gentleman, let's finish up our warm-ups, and hit the music!" Madame Hockley was a middle-aged graying woman, but man, she had a rack that could find its way into anyone's fantasies. Anyone except Dean that is, because once she was done squawking about blah blah blah, his eyes darted back to the bonerific sight of Castiel jumping up and down. It wasn't a sensual thing; he wasn't pushing his dick out and screaming for a blow job, or even looking in the voyeur's direction. But all the same, where he moved, Dean's stare followed.

Castiel's concentration was divided between getting ready for class and making the God watching him sweat and continuously gawk, ranging his moves from spreading eagles to cheer leading poses. It was rather flattering to know he was attracting such honest and appraising attention; in this kind of town, it was very unusual for kids to be bisexual or prefer the same sex, so his experience in the love department was beyond slim. But luck was with him today, as he slid his heated jacket off his shoulders and Drake/Dan/Dominic nearly convulsed before him. His tiny belly button ring sank with his flat stomach in a chuckle, because it was just too much entertainment to tease the poor guy. He figured that the stranger wasn't shy, especially since he wasn't looking away.. obviously wanting a show. And boy, would he get one.


	3. Chapter 3

Life was unfair, Dean was familiar with that fact. With his lifestyle and family, that phrase was tattooed onto his soul like a mantra of pain. Being a stranger to heartache and hopelessness wasn't in the cards, or the family business. He was also not a stranger to the knowledge of his pants ready to burst at the seams; he could hear the fabric hanging on by useless threads, overdramatic antics or not. And no, that wasn't a crude boost to his size, thankyouverymuch. Unlike his father, he didn't go swingin' his junk around to make a point, like a freaking doped up caveman would. At this very moment, however, his dick felt like the size of a summer sausage, less tasty maybe. Not that he'd ever tried it, sucking cock... a fiasco with a misplaced finger with dried white stuff, however, that's another story. A very disgusting one, man. Whatever, the point was that he had a boner the size of Nashville that was continuously growing, and it was all Castiel's freakin' fault.

Sitting in a public oven with way too many bodies swaying to the beat of upbeat music was the worst damned place to think about sex, but that didn't seem to stop his ever quickening thoughts. Images of toned thighs and raven hair were invading his brain over and over, and he was helpless. So. Damn. Helpless. True, he could've went outside or hid in the bathroom or pulled a Titanic and drowned himself in embarrassment, but nope. His ass was firmly planted in the highly uncomfortable chair, back hunched and legs twitching every few seconds, eyes focused on what looked to be a bitch in heat. Or a slutty dancer who needed to stop being so fucking sexy for one fucking second so his fucking dick could stop fucking trying to become the next God-fucking-zilla. If it were possible for the muscle to gain control and start singing "IT'S RAINING MEN, HALLELUJAH!", Dean was sure it would've happened about an hour ago.

To an outsider's opinion, he was getting worked up by very little. Even an openly homosexual dude (his dad would say "fag", but Sammy would kill him if he even uttered that phrase. Whether it was in his head or not, he respected his baby brother) wouldn't find the sight before him as sexually charged, but damn it, they weren't him. They weren't there to witness the elastic motions and gyrating hips that followed a thumping bass; they didn't have to watch like a peeping Tom with their hand inching toward the proverbial cookie jar, ready to snatch all of the treats and tuck them into their slobbering mouths with fevor. No one else besides him could witness the fanfuckingtastic show he had before him, ready to pounce and bite and lick that porcelain skin. Because that's exactly what Dean wanted right then and there, to taste the delicatable and dangling piece of sugared ass only 20 feet away... it was the sweetest form of torture to look and never touch. This was hell, and he was doomed.

Jeez Louise, the guy didn't even know he was alive, and yet he couldn't stop oogling his stomach like Hannibal Lecter! Let alone the fact that, as previously mentioned, he only preferred pussy and tits; no way was a Winchester into that queer shit. Dean hoped like hell that this was all because of some monster playing a trick on him and his dad would find and slay the son of a bitch. At the moment though, all conscious thoughts on what his dad would say or do in this situation were like a muted waterfall behind the images of Castiel, under him and begging. For the record, he wouldn't mind having the slim delight on top of him and pleading, either; he was capable to letting his partner do some of the work in the bedroom, like a true man would. The flaming ballerina wasn't his partner, never would be his in a million trillion killion banillion (shut up, he could count like that if he wanted to) years, but again, all logic was out the window. He wished that he could accomany it across the ledge as well, and get away from this creeping death.

The entire hour had been filled with pop songs and shitty lyrics that Dean didn't really recognize; girly music was Sam's forte. Sammy had a soft spot for Taylor Swift, and his big brother teased him relentlessly about his iPod's collection. But with the bleeding ears came the struts and twirls, bouncing and swinging legs, the dancers waving and walking on tip toes and looking full out stupid... seriously, they resembled bobble heads on crack. All except one, that is. Castiel didn't really follow the class instructions to let his soul breathe, or whatever bullshit the teacher broad was spouting. He seemed to do his own thing, be his own boss, and that was hot all on its own. Being on the negative end with authority himself, he gave points to the stranger for doing what he wanted; Dean liked seeing what Castiel wanted to do, too. His ass was always swinging along with his weaving arms in the air, like a seducing genie awaking from his lamp of one thousand sleeps. Cheeks were rosy red from exurcision and Dean swore he could smell the sweat that was dripping from the mussed hairline. He was graceful and persistent in his steps, so fucking beautiful that it was disgusting. And, oh yeah, since when did he think dudes were beautiful? That wasn't cool. Men could be rugged, powerful, brave, or heroic. Never beautiful. Not even babies.

Dean really needed to get out of that building and maybe jump the border just to lose sight of this temptation that he wasn't allowed. It took an incredible strength to stop his beating heart and clamming hands from reaching out and claiming what was rightfully his. Castiel had to know his affect on the others present, him included. Cocktease. Thank fuck that Sammy's class was up in 15 and the cooling down period was beginning. The now squirming teen decided that he would burst into creamy flames if he had to watch the public porn for one more second, he'd set the entire floor on fire with his erupting cock. The children would be scarred for life, and the terribly decorated room would be washed away for good. God damn, the pressure was getting so bad that he had to use his now closed magazine (he had lost interest the second he smelled Castiel, how disturbing was that?) to shield his front, just so he could press down and try to lessen the girth. But no no no, a calming action couldn't be introduced here; instead, a hiss was seeped through his teeth as his eyes clenched shut. Holy mother of doughnuts, that felt amazing. His knees clicked together on instinct, a shudder raced down his arched back in close warning. With an estimate of a few more firm rubs, his pain could be gone that easily... but did he really wanna explode inside his pants with a real life incubi close by? Did he seriously want to risk getting caught in the act by literally anyone else in that very room? Did he actually want to waste his load on his briefs instead of in something else tight with heat? Yes. No. Maybe...

Life was so fucking unfair.


	4. Chapter 4

Daryl/Danny/Dracula (yes, that IS a suitable name for a modern day young man) had literally used his chair as a humping device the entire hour of dance class; Castiel was beyond impressed. Not that the boy across the room from him hadn't embarrassed himself by getting caught or having an "accident", but that he could inflict such torture on someone else. A someone else with major sex appeal and the workings of an incredible erection shape. Just the slight appearance of it was making his mouth water for more, his own body seeming to correspond with the sexual tension in the air. Though Cas couldn't tell from jeans alone, he was nearly all the way positive that Shaun/Skylar/Sage's brother had at least 7 inches hidden away... but not for long, if he had anything to say about it. Fortunately for him, Madame Hockley clapped her hands and ordered her worker bees to start slowing down with yoga positions; as if those kind of exercises had anything to do with ballet. But the end of class meant was now a possibility, and that meant he could approach the chair rider... or the other one. Yes, the lesser of two evils first.

Grabbing a clean towel and fresh water bottle from his bag, the raven haired dancer sauntered his slim hips over to the rather red-faced new member. By Cas' standards, he was quite attractive himself. A little too young for wet dream material, but he could see himself grow to like the enthusiastic lad. Anyone who devoted time to art was on his immediate radar, age having no bounds. The boy in question (Gosh darnit, if he could JUST REMEMBER HIS NAME!) was huffing and panting on the floor by his lonesome, probably trying to imitate what looked like birthing techniques... and it didn't seem to be working, so Castiel Milton decided to intervene. A polite hello to segue into the older lad's pants, he hoped. "Hello there. May I ask what it is you're doing?"

Sam, having lost and gain so many brain cells during the tiring affair of leaping and twirling, could only look up and gawk at the legend before him. He'd heard tons of people in this new town both criticize and worship Castiel, all for the same reasons. He was openly gay and a fantastic performer, which is basically like cream cheese icing on a pile of shit in a place like this. But the young Winchester lacked the will to judge him, as his older brother was a closet bisexual (did you know that Dean kept nude pictures of cowboys under the fabric of his duffel bag? Weeeiiiiird). But nevertheless, he finally learned how to speak again, though it came out weaker than he planned. "Umm... relaxing? I think?" he squeaked, drawing his hazel eyes to cobalt blue.

"Oh. Well you could be doing worse, I suppose. You're new here, yes? I hadn't caught your name the first time we crossed paths", Castiel retorted, already a little bored with the kid's short answers. He really just wanted to have his way with the other brother, before it was too late... was that too much to ask?

"Yeah, thanks; I have no idea how to do the poses like the rest of you... and I'm Sam, Sam Winchester! You're Castiel Milton, I know. You're totally great at this sort of thing! I could watch you all day, not like I was just now, but you know what I mean." Ah, that was his name, now he remembered. This Sam fellow was beaming with second-hand pride, like the Julliard-bound teen was his newest best friend or something. In a way, it was a little cute and made Cas melt on the inside. He wasn't used to praise, especially from an outsider. If Sam were a bit older and less of a puppy, he'd certainly try to steal and break him. But alas, it was the other brother he wanted... and with that nudge, he formed a very wicked plan of manipulation.

"That's me. I wouldn't say I'm that grand, but I appreciate your confidence in me, Samuel. If I may, I could show you how to do the pretzel or the flamingo? They're common stances, it won't take long. Maybe right now or this weekend? If you don't mind holding my company or having our bodies smashed together." He placed a sincere grin laced above a kitten purr, hoping to come off as seductive but not overly so; his plot was to tease the still squirming (and now obviously staring) unfortunate Winchester, by using his little brother. It was devious, but he could blame it on the hormones. If he were lucky, he might be able to stumble his way into a sweaty threesome, illegal or not.

Excited eyes leaped from cherry-wrinkled lips and back to the piercing eyes again and again, nodding like one of those portable bobble heads from the Jiffy Stop gas station. Apparently Sam wasn't interested in the hints of persuasion, but merely learning from "the best" and becoming his "student of dance". Whatever the situation, Castiel's plan was hatching and laying golden eggs all over the place, and he'd soon have his man candy. Being unable to resist a look, he turned a little to his right to get one last look of his prize, in all of its glory. His eyes locked with candy-apple green and the world came to a sudden halt. But with the flash of a wink and a saucy smirk, Castiel turned back to throw his arms around Samuel, tossing a little kiss onto a warm cheek for good measure. He really shouldn't pull homosexual stunts like that in public, but from the echoing moan and startled gasp ringing in his ears, it was worth it.


End file.
